The rest of the morning passed in cheerful chaos. Bingley's enthusiasm for the holiday entertainment had infected the entire household; servants bustled through the corridors carrying linens and silver, the housekeeper consulted endless lists, and the gardeners were dispatched to gather holly and ivy from the grounds.
Darcy attempted to help but found himself hopelessly out of his depth. He knew nothing about table arrangements or the proper placement of candles. When Bingley asked his opinion on ribbon colors, he stared blankly until his friend laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Never mind, Darcy. I forget you are hopeless at such things. Caroline will manage it.”
Caroline, who had not spoken to Darcy since their exchange in the library, was indeed managing things—with the fierce determination of a general preparing for battle. She issued commands to servants, critiqued flower arrangements, and spoke at length about the importance of elegance and refinement.
Darcy stayed out of her way.
He was crossing the entrance hall when voices drifted from the morning room—Bingley's cheerful tones mingled with others, lighter and more musical.
He paused.
Through the half-open door, he glimpsed movement: the flutter of a familiar blue pelisse, the gleam of dark hair caught in winter light. The Bennets had returned—or some of them, at least. He could hear Miss Bennet's gentle voice, Bingley's eager replies, and beneath it all, the bright thread of Miss Elizabeth's laughter.
Darcy stepped back from the doorway before he could be seen.
He should join them. Courtesy demanded it. Bingley would welcome the company, and Miss Bennet—Jane—would not object to another guest.
But Miss Elizabeth was there.
Miss Elizabeth, with her quick wit and knowing eyes and the way she looked at him as though she could see straight through his careful composure to the confusion beneath.
He was not ready to face her. Not yet. Not when his thoughts were still tangled, his feelings still raw from a night of unwelcome self-examination.
He retreated to the library instead, telling himself it was prudence rather than cowardice.
From the window, he watched the Bennets depart an hour later—a flash of blue pelisse, the sound of feminine voices, the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. Miss Elizabeth glanced toward the house as she climbed into the carriage, and for a moment, Darcy thought she looked directly at his window.
He stepped back into the shadows, heart pounding.
This was ridiculous. He was behaving like a schoolboy with his first infatuation, hiding from a woman who probably had not thought of him at all since yesterday's tea.
Except she had thought of him. He had seen it in her eyes—the curiosity, the reassessment, the dawning awareness that he was not entirely the proud, disagreeable man she had believed him to be.
She was beginning to see him clearly.
The thought was terrifying.
Late in the afternoon, a carriage arrived from London bearing a parcel addressed to Miss Bingley.
Caroline received it with barely contained excitement, whisking the package upstairs before anyone could examine its contents. Darcy glimpsed only a flash of pale green leaves tied with crimson ribbon before she disappeared.
“What do you suppose that is?” Bingley asked, watching his sister's retreat.
The word ‘trouble’ sat at the tip of Darcy’s tongue, but he bit it back. Caroline seemed to want to make amends. Instead, he said, “A London fashion, she said.”
Bingley laughed. “With the wealth of greenery around us, I do not see why we must import more from Town. But if it makes Caro happy…” He shrugged.
Darcy only hoped the heavy feeling of dread settling over him was nothing more than imagination.
He had never been particularly imaginative.
CAROLINE'S ASTONISHING LONDON CUSTOM
At breakfast,Mrs. Bennet was in raptures about the upcoming festivities.
“A holiday entertainment at Netherfield! And we are to be the principal guests—well, Jane is, certainly, but where Jane goes, you all follow.” She waved her toast for emphasis. “Mr. Bingley could not be more devoted. I told you, Mr. Bennet. I told you we should have a match before Twelfth Night.”
